Afton of Margate Castle (42 page)

“Outside the city war still rages,” Khalil said over supper one evening as Calhoun and Fulk joined him on the covered terrace. “And war continues inside the city, but in subtle ways.”

“What do you mean?” Calhoun asked.

“The Assassins,” Khalil whispered, looking around him with wide eyes. “They are a secret society sworn to kill the enemies of Mohammedism.”

“Why doesn’t someone confront these people and destroy them?” Calhoun demanded.

Khalil smiled. “They are ghosts. No one knows where they meet or who they are. The beggar sleeping on the corner of the road might be hiding a dagger meant for your heart. The loyal servant who daily pours your wine might one day add the poison that will strike you down.”

“Such actions are cowardly!” Calhoun ranted, remembering the headless corpse of Parnell, killed while he slept. “What sort of coward does not confront his enemy?”

“A terribly clever one,” Khalil answered. “But they are not cowards. They will die in the commission of their sworn duty, if necessary, and will kill themselves should they fail. You may have noticed that I have no Moslem servants. I will buy from them, sell to them, and befriend them. But I will not have a Muslim working in my house. I simply do not trust them.”

Khalil explained that the Muslims were divided among themselves, and the Sunni Muslims believed that the Frankish armies of the first expedition of God had been summoned by a rival Muslim group to destroy them. “It was a sad day when the Sunni Muslims realized the Franks came to stay,” Khalil said, sipping from a silver goblet. “And for years the warring factions of Muslims have been trying to put aside their difference for a jihad, a holy war against the infidels.”

“The infidels?” Calhoun asked. “But the heathen who have desecrated the Holy City are the infidels!”

Khalil shook his head. “You forget that Jerusalem is a most holy city for the Muslims, too. It is said that Mohammed was awakened by the angel Gabriel in Mecca and advised that he was to take a night journey to paradise. To prepare for the trip, Gabriel slit Mohammed’s body open, removed and cleansed his heart, and when it was returned to him, it was filled with faith and wisdom. Mohammed then mounted a magic mare with a woman’s face, a mule’s body, and a peacock’s tail. Accompanied by Gabriel, Mohammed was at the ‘fartherest place’ in a heartbeat.”

“What is this ‘fartherest place’?” Fulk muttered.

“Jerusalem,” Khalil answered. “Though certainly Mohammed never visited here in the flesh, it is said he visited in spirit. He tethered his magic mare at the wailing wall, then went up to the Temple Mount. There he discovered the rock of Abraham’s sacrifice, and a ladder of light which led to Paradise. This he climbed, meeting Abraham, Jesus, Moses, and Noah on the ladder. At the top of the latter Mohammed saw Allah, unmasked.”

“Nonsense!” Calhoun snorted. “This is a crazy tale.”

“It grows more interesting,” Khalil answered. “Allah told Mohammed he wanted his subjects to pray to him thirty-five times a day, but Mohammed talked the deity into a more practical five-times-a-day ritual. After being filled with the wisdom of Solomon, Mohammed climbed down the ladder and rode back home to Mecca.”

“I suppose there is a monument on the place now,” Fulk remarked dryly.

“But of course,” Khalil said, a sly smile lighting his eyes. “The Most Noble Sanctuary. The Knights Templar use it as their headquarters, and the Muslims would love to see their most holy place cleared of all Christian infidels. There is a regent in the north now, Zengi, who is said to be amassing an army for this purpose.”

“Why do we not ride out and stop him?” Calhoun asked, his eyes blazing.

Khalil shrugged. “Before Zengi, there was another. After Zengi, there will come yet another. The Saracens are always massing, always attempting to wage war. While they do prompt a man to sleep with his dagger at his side, they have not posed a severe threat.”

Calhoun nodded. Though Jerusalem was not the war-torn city he had envisioned, still it offered opportunities for service. He looked over at Fulk and smiled. His dagger might taste of blood yet.

T
he next two years passed smoothly in the convent. Agnelet grew as long and slender as a reed, and there were times Hildegard completely forgot about the horrible blood-red mark on the girl’s face. On those occasions Hildegard would notice the beauty of Agnelet’s clear complexion and delicate features, and then, like a thunderclap, the reality of the crimson claw mark upon the girl’s face would assert itself. In Hildegard’s mind the mark was no longer a coincidental configuration, but the actual print of the devil’s claw, a fiendish hand that had tried and failed to snatch the babe from the land of the living.

“But you failed,” Hildegard told the ground beneath her feet. “The devil himself failed to take this child, and now she abides with God.” Indeed, Hildegard found Agnelet more dedicated to the holy rule of the nuns than many of the nuns themselves. Agnelet seemed to know instinctively how a nun should respond in any situation, and she read the nuns’ delicate sign language easily, incorporating it often into her own spare conversation.

She slept in a curtained alcove in the cloister with the other nuns, and when the bells rang for the night office at two a.m., she sprang from her straw mattress to go with the nuns to the dark, cold chapel to recite Matins, followed immediately by Lauds. The nuns then went back to bed, Agnelet with them, though often the child lay awake until the bells rang at six o’clock for Prime.

After Prime the nuns ate a light breakfast of bread and beer (Agnelet, by special dispensation, drank milk), then went about their work, for the nunnery was affiliated with a working order whose holy rule considered labor as important as piety and prayer. Agnelet’s chores were simple: she served as assistant to the gardening nuns, the cooking nuns, and occasionally assisted the Abbess herself.

At noon the community of nuns stopped work to eat a solid meal at which no one spoke, for the meal they ate for their bodies was not as crucial as the meal they received for their souls through the dinnertime reading of the day’s epistle. All language having to do with the physical meal was secondary, and relegated to the hands: an upraised hand with a waggling index finger asked for water, a cutting motion of the back of one hand against the palm of the other told the server that bread was needed, and two humble taps on the breast eloquently asked excuse for the latecomer or the nun who had unceremoniously belched at the table.

Throughout the rest of the day the nuns dropped their work and retreated to the chapel to recite the other offices, Tierce, Sext, None, and Vespers, and after Compline, the last office of the day, they went straight in an orderly row to bed.

Such was the life of Hildegard, Lienor, and Agnelet, and as Hildegard watched her flock struggle to perfect themselves in the heavenly graces, she thought she had never seen a more perfect nun’s heart than that which resided in Agnelet.

***

Afton smiled at Ambrose as he struggled to pull a fish trap from the stream. “I’ve got it, mother,” he called, struggling to raise the heavy trap. “I’ve almost got it!”

“Careful or it will get you!” Afton teased, rising to stand behind her son. “It will pull you right into the river if you’re not careful!”

She grabbed a section of the rope that held the trap and gave a mighty tug. The trap raised slowly, and water flowed out of it. Inside three healthy trout flopped about, and an eel struggled to free himself. “Quick, cut off his head,” Afton said, handing her dagger to Ambrose. “We’ll have eel for dinner.”

As he cut, Afton couldn’t resist rumpling her son’s golden hair, even though he pulled awkwardly away. At six, Ambrose was tall and fair with dark blue eyes that sparkled wickedly when his thoughts turned to mischief. He was handsome, quite the most beautiful boy in the village, and Afton’s primary reason for living.

A shadow fell across Ambrose, and Afton turned to see Josson standing behind her, his ledger in his hand. “Hello, Josson,” she replied casually, accustomed to his presence at the mill. “We’re not grinding today, there’s been no demand for it. More people are coming for fish this week than for grinding.”

“I know, there has not been much harvest from Perceval’s fields, either.”

Josson sat on a tree stump behind her and inspected the fish trap. “But there are three fine fellows! And an eel! Ambrose, did you haul that trap up yourself?”

Ambrose scowled at Josson, and Afton felt her face flush with embarrassment. Lately the boy had been openly hostile to Josson, and Afton had not the vaguest idea what Josson had done to offend him.

“Yes, he pulled it up himself,” she said quickly. She patted Ambrose on the back and took the dagger from his hand. “Take the eel to the kitchen, son, and give it to the cook for dinner. Hurry!”

Ambrose held the eel by two fingers and sprinted across the courtyard to the kitchen. Afton wiped her hands on her apron and looked down at her guest. “I suppose you’ll want one of the fish for Perceval?”

“No, the tribute is only one fish out of five, not one of three,” Josson answered, squinting up at her in the sun. “But if you serve me dinner, I think that will meet the requirements for today’s bounty.”

“Come then,” Afton smiled at him. She took the arm he gallantly offered, and together they went into the hall.

***

After dinner Afton sent Ambrose out to play and looked earnestly into Josson’s eyes. “Sir, I would ask you an honest question,” said, tapping her finger lightly on her cup. “You have been coming here for six years, and your attitude is pleasant toward me, but your talk is all of business. But you do not visit the tanner or the smith with such regularity, and they are free tradespeople such as I.”

She paused and frowned slightly. “I would know the reason for your visits, sir. Why do you come so often?”

Josson smiled at her words and shifted in his seat. “It is no mystery,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “Lord Perceval and my master Hector do not trust the operation of the mill by a woman. I am sent as overseer.”

“No other reason? Have you been charged to find me in a fault?”

“What makes you ask?”

“Long ago, the idea was suggested to me. I thought it nonsense then, but lately your visits have become more regular, and I would know if I stand in jeopardy of losing my livelihood.”

Josson cleared his throat and looked away for a moment, and Afton knew him well enough to realize he was searching for a harmless means of subterfuge. “I am entrusted to ascertain that all is within the measure of the law,” he said finally. “I am charged--”

“All is well,” Afton finished for him. “I understand. You can be sure, Josson, that I have reasons of my own to continue in honest trade. My son and I have suffered much to acquire the mill, and I intend to run the mill honestly so that we may keep it.”

Josson spread his hands and smiled. “Then there is no problem, aye?” He grinned and leaned toward her on the table. “There is perhaps one other reason why I visit so often. It is because I am so fond of eating in your house, mistress Afton.” He was teasing, and Afton knew it, but it had been so long since any man had teased her that she blushed and hid her face.

***

Agnelet wandered in the convent, bored and uneasy with the unusual abundance of free time. Two new novices were being vested in the chapel, and because the chapel overflowed with visitors, Hildegard had asked Agnelet to stay out of sight and amuse herself until the vesture and feast were done.

Agnelet wandered for a while in the garden, her favorite spot in the convent, then lay on her back to watch the sky. The sun shone bright on her pale face, and she closed her eyes to enjoy its warmth. Soon its heat became uncomfortable, though, drawn in through her tunic and veil and cape.

She got up and crossed to the garden gate. Outside the gate lay a grassy field where the world met the cloister. She had never been through the gate, for the outside world held no attraction for her, but the sun beamed upon her from the direction of the field and the grass beckoned invitingly. How would it feel to scamper outside the walls? How would it feel to run in a straight line until her breath gave out, without having to turn to avoid either a wall or a black-robed nun?